


uncomplicated kindnesses

by goukyorin (sashimisusie)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 21:25:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3183716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sashimisusie/pseuds/goukyorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She cannot ignore the truth of the matter: that for all her distance, she has come to care for those who rally under the Inquisitor's name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	uncomplicated kindnesses

        It starts simply, subtle twists and turns that Cassandra only notices when she takes a step back to regard with a critical eye. Distance from the subject, as she has learned over the course of the years, is required in order to give it the proper appraisal.

        **Varric** is not meant for traipsing through the woods—not punching bears, not when they haven’t run into any yet—long hours and uneven terrain taking its toll on him. She does not wake him when the quiet hours of the night tick down into what should be his watch. He won’t notice, slumbering in the gap between worlds where the Maker cannot reach, and so she gives him this small bit of kindness at her expense.

       She switches waterskins with **Sera** when the elf drops her attention—and her pack—to dive over a dune in the heat-blasted expanse of the Western Approach. Sera, the reckless archer who has never learned to ration and loves like she lives, grasping for more with raisin-dark eyes and small hands coming away empty. Not this time, at least. Her own is more than half-full, and if Sera notices the slight increase in weight when she bounds back, she says not a word _(for once)_.

       Sipping at the amber liquid in the fine gold-rimmed teacup, Cassandra marvels silently at what the ritual of hot water and tea leaves has the power to ease. The enchanter is many things—a woman of formidable resolve, keen scholar, and powerful mage to name a few. **Vivienne** wants for little she cannot acquire through one manner or another, so the Seeker offers her this: honest conversation over a cup of tea, and friendship.

       Respect, protection, and knowledge. These are the things she can give **Solas** in return for his aid. The stories he parts with are both bright and dark, reflections of the Fade spun into reality, and even now, she does not entirely believe in his every tale—a lesson learned from a bird flown far and fast, and the rogue who followed with pen in hand. But she listens, for what it is worth.

       Cassandra raises a brow, questioning, as she hears out **the Iron Bull** 's suggestion. There is no glory to be had in the murder and battle, only death, but that does not mean they cannot take pride in their roles. She smashes her shield into the next hostile force they encounter, going low as she calls for him to aim high, and sure enough, the hapless bandit flips. Thrill over this small victory sends a laugh bubbling from her lips and a heartier one from him, a moment of brightness against the blood-splattered sky.

       Her expression is dark as the gathering storm clouds overhead and only a fraction less tumultuous when she demands to know what is wrong with **Blackwall**. It grows only darker still when she sees how he has hidden the injuries. Only allies can betray you, a wise man once said to her, and as she winds the linen securely around his wounds, she recalls that she once counted the not-Warden among the honourable few. Though he may be a traitor—so too is she, a voice in the quiet centre of the storm that is Cassandra’s wounded pride and anger says—she would not see him hurt.

       They hide their hurts and bury them inside, guarding the garden of their past regrets and unforgotten pains with casual disregard—on **Dorian** 's part—and bristling indifference on Cassandra's end. But they fester, Once, she thought them so different that a bridge would do little to lessen the distance between Seeker and Altus, but it seems the Maker has a perverse sense of humour. She shakes her head, albeit fondly, when she finds him slumped over his desk, blessedly obvious to the ink smear on his cheek from the wayward pen in his hands. She doesn't have to pull up a blanket over his shoulders or set the pen down on the desk, but she does. It is merely something else they have in common: care, the deepest sort that could move recalcitrant nations if pressed to.

       Cassandra sighs when she catches sight of **Cole** lagging behind, hands flicking crumbs to the ground. When the Inquisitor calls for a rest next, she gestures for the spirit-turned-human to sit next to her. Cole, who sprinkled the crust of his bread away to the voles, and when that was done, the soft crumb of it to the mice. It keeps the foxes fed, he says quite simply, and she nods as she tears her own share in half.

 **“** You’re helping, **”** he says in wonderment. **“** You’re doing what I do. **”**

       Each instance of kindness has been cataloged, tucked away and marked in the record of her own memory for safe-keeping. She cannot ignore the truth, and so she comes to a conclusion. Distance herself as she will, even the enchanted armour is not impenetrable and the most stalwart of defenders does not truly stand alone.

 **“** Yes, **”** Cassandra smiles, delicate as the spiderwebs that help the healers but no less sure, **“** Just like that. **”**


End file.
